


You Forgave (And I Won't Forget)

by grayscaleTestimony



Series: If the Sky Comes Falling Down For You [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Wings, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big brother Crowley, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley is a good brother, Cults, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hurt Uriel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Religious Cults, The Archangels as Siblings, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayscaleTestimony/pseuds/grayscaleTestimony
Summary: He considers going to talk to her, to talk about what happened in Heaven last he had seen her, but brushes the thought from his mind. He’s here to havefun,not dwell on his family drama worthy of a prime time spot on the telly. He does keep a closer eye on her when a no-good looking guy sends her a drink, but rolls his eyes at himself.“She’s an Archangel,” he mutters to no one in particular, “she can take care of herself.”He broods in the corner, leaning back to lounge on the plush chair, and he considers sobering up and going back to the bookshop. He’d told Aziraphale he’d be home at around midnight, and it’s almost eleven anyways — he could walk, if he so desired to. He turns to look at his sister again, only to find her stumbling towards the exit with the man who had bought her a drink.Oh, like Hell,he thinks, standing up and rushing to the bar to pay his tab.Or: Uriel goes out for an evening on Earth after the family drama ensuing in Heaven. It doesn't go as planned.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Uriel (Good Omens)
Series: If the Sky Comes Falling Down For You [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1431367
Comments: 31
Kudos: 560





	You Forgave (And I Won't Forget)

**Author's Note:**

> This took WAY longer than I was expecting, but I sincerely hope it was worth the wait!! This series is far from over -- I have _three_ more planned out for the future -- so keep an eye out! This installment takes place about a month after As Old As Your Omens, just for a frame of reference! Title is from the Mumford and Songs song "I Will Wait". Enjoy!

Uriel hadn’t ever really bothered with Earth. Sure, she was there briefly when she was a fledgling, but from the time she was tasked with real responsibilities, Earth had become a background thought amidst her other tasks. It wasn’t until the upcoming Armageddon that she had gone back down, and then shortly after Armageddon was stopped. She didn’t even really see much — she was busy tracking down Aziraphale and following orders from her brother ( _curse being the youngest_ , she thought more often than not). So, when she has the opportunity to go to Earth for no reason other than to enjoy herself, she takes the opportunity to get drunk for the first time in a very, _very_ long time.

She goes to the first bar she sees — on the corner of a dark street with a neon sign that advertises dancing and drinking for twenty-four hours. There’s a steady flow of people going in and out, laughing and heavily inebriated. Uriel studies the few women who come out of the bar, opting to miracle away her pantsuit in favor of a pair of white jeans and a sweater. She joins a swathe of people coming into the club, slipping past two large men at the door.

The club is mostly dark, except for the lights from the center of the room, which seems to be a dance floor. It smells like sweat and cologne and alcohol, and she wrinkles her nose. Why humans enjoyed places like this she’d never understand. The music wasn't even that good — Hell created EDM, after all, and she preferred classical and the occasional musical. There’s a nice looking bartender serving drinks, so she goes straight to a stool and waits for him to come over.

“What’ll it be?” he asks, and she says the first thing that catches her eye on the menu behind him. He gives her a smile and mixes it up for her, sliding it to her over the well-worn bartop. She takes a careful sip of the bright green drink, tasting the waters. She shrugs, and downs the whole thing in a few quick chugs. She slides the glass back to the bartender, flashing a bright smile.

“Another, please. Add it to a tab,” she says sweetly, folding her hands on the table. She doesn't know much about humans, but based on every piece of media she’d seen, female-presenting people got many things when they could be pretty and agreeable. It seems to work, because she has another drink in front of her in a moment, and she drinks it while watching humans make fools out of themselves by dancing.

She’s nursing a drink she was told was a “screwdriver” an hour and a half later when the bartender sets another bright-colored drink in front of her. She looks up at him, arching an eyebrow. “I didn’t order this.”

“The gent over there had me send it to you,” he replies, sliding a pint of beer down the bar to a woman. “Says he sends his regards.” He turns and gestures to another man at the far end of the bar, who looks up and gives a nod. Uriel goes back to her own drink for a while before she feels a tap on her shoulder. She turns around on the barstool and the man who sent her the drink is standing with his arms comfortably crossed.

“Hey there,” he says, smiling. She narrows her eyes at him. “You new around here? I frequent this place and I’ve never seen you here before.”

“You could say that,” she replies, picking up the drink that he had bought her. She assumes it’s some kind of thing that humans do. “Thank you for the drink.” He laughs and waves her off.

“Oh— no problem, you looked like you were a little lost on what to get. I figured I would help — my sister likes this brew when she comes out with me,” he remarks flippantly, taking a seat next to Uriel at the bar. “You go to bars like this a lot?”

“Not really, no,” she replies, taking a sip of the beer.

It’s something with an apple aftertaste, she thinks, taking another drink just to be sure. It’s definitely apple, and it’s a little too sweet for her liking. She watches another girl finish her own drink while talking to the woman who had bought it for her, and Uriel swirls the glass before she kills the drink off. It must be another one of those human things. The man keeps talking to her while she nods along, more interested in watching people dance in the middle of the room than the conversation he’s trying to maintain. She turns and raises her hand to flag the bartender down.

“Another?” the man seated next to her asks. She nods. “It’s on me.”

“Thank you— I never caught your name?” she asks as the bartender puts down another screwdriver.

“Oh— where are my manners, I’m Malachi,” he answers, turning to the bartender to order a bloody mary. “You’re holding your liquor rather well.”

She shrugs and downs half the screwdriver, because she is not drunk enough to deal with the human antics. She’s starting to think that maybe this was a bad idea.

“I have a lot of practice,” she lies, rolling her eyes.

She idly listens to him talk for awhile longer, leaning into the warmth of drunkenness. By the time she tires of his droning and finishes her last drink, she is pleasantly oblivious to her previous annoyances. When she stands up from the barstool, she stumbles. Malachi manages to catch her.

“Easy there, let’s call you an Uber,” he says, slinging one of her arms around his shoulders.

She curses the previous decision to wear high heels — how do people walk in these every day? Hell might be creative with torture methods, but humans could give them a run for their money — or did Hell come up with high heels? She’d have to ask Crowley.

Oh, right, now she remembered again. Crowley hadn’t spoken to her since their last meeting in Heaven, and of course that had been after they’d — well. They all knew what happened. Gabriel was still moping and Michael had thrown themselves even further into their work as the head of Heaven, and Uriel hadn’t had the time to dwell much on her older brother. Last she’d heard, Lucifer had spoken with him and had been for a few weeks. It was a tentative relationship at best, and besides — Crowley and Lucifer were both Fallen, they’d get along better than Crowley would any of his angelic siblings. Including Uriel herself, as much as it pained her to think about. She’s lost in thought as she’s led outside, and she tries not to dwell on the feeling of loneliness.

Crowley doesn’t notice her right away. He’d already been in the bar, people watching while he drank a half-decent cocktail before retreating to one of the cushioned lounge chairs across the club. He’d recognize his sister anywhere, though, golden marks and freckles scattered on her face like stars. They reflected in the low light of the room, catching a few eyes as she made her way to the bar. She’d opted to blend in with the humans, because gone is her normal suit in favor of jeans and a cream-colored sweater he’s fairly sure he saw a girl in earlier. He considers going to talk to her, to talk about what happened in Heaven last he had seen her, but brushes the thought from his mind. He’s here to have _fun_ , not dwell on his family drama worthy of a prime time spot on the telly. He does keep a closer eye on her when a no-good looking guy sends her a drink, but rolls his eyes at himself.

“She’s an Archangel,” he mutters to no one in particular, “she can take care of herself.”

He broods in the corner, leaning back to lounge on the plush chair, and he considers sobering up and going back to the bookshop. He’d told Aziraphale he’d be home at around midnight, and it’s almost eleven anyways — he could walk, if he so desired to. He turns to look at his sister again, only to find her stumbling towards the exit with the man who had bought her a drink.

 _Oh, like Hell,_ he thinks, standing up and rushing to the bar to pay his tab. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his sister to look after herself — she _is_ an Archangel, after all — but humans could be bastards and he doesn’t like the idea of her going off with one when she was obviously drunk and unaware of human behavior. He makes a rush for the side exit, hoping to slink through the alleyways to follow them. When he catches sight of them, Uriel is keeping to herself while they take a back street to cut through to a few series of alleys. Crowley slides his sunglasses up, blinking to get used to the adjusted light. He keeps slinking behind them, keeping his distance while he studies the man. Tall but slender, dark hair, trying to maintain a conversation with Uriel. Crowley almost decides to turn back, but then he catches a symbol tattooed on the neck of the man half-carrying her. A symbol that was most popular in Hell with a group of cultists. _Shit._

The two go into a warehouse and Crowley manages to sneak in behind them, willing himself practically invisible to the humans in the room. If there was one thing he’d learned as a demon, it was that lurking was a good skill to have. And there are a _lot_ of humans in the room, dressed in red and black. Crowley would call it tacky if they were more pathetic and if they _didn’t_ have a mostly-incapacitated Archangel in their possession. Having an angel as important as Uriel was _not_ a good thing. Crowley just needs to figure out how to get her out of this.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” the man says, and at the remark, Uriel is suddenly more sober as she struggles away from the human who held her. One of her sets of wings — her second set — jerk into the material plane and nearly knock over a set of people that make a dash for her.

“Get away from me — who the _Hell_ do you think you are?” she snaps, eyes glowing gold in the dim lighting.

She rushes at the man who had brought her, but he backs away quickly only for her to be stopped by some invisible force that she bounces off of. Crowley sees the Enochian symbols and elaborate circles under her feet and he curses under his breath. Demon summoning and holding circles were far more common, but angel traps were more complex, harder to weasel out of. They’re dangerous when the wrong people get hold of them.

“Good work,” one of the hooded figures drawls. Crowley wrinkles his nose at the American accent — it’s always them, isn’t it?

Coming to Europe to find old demons to summon, or in this case, an angel to trap. The same figure turns to face Uriel, who’s throwing her body against the invisible barrier that contains her. Her largest set of wings strain against the same barrier, but Crowley is unsure of when her secondary set of wings flared out. The feathers are all out of place, puffed up to make herself look as big as possible while she yells, pounding one fist against the metaphysical barrier containing her.

“You are all going to be _very_ sorry,” she spits vehemently, spinning around to look at the people around her. “You have _no_ idea what you’re messing with!”

The same man who brought her in snorts, while another laughs. He reaches through the barrier, seizing Uriel by the throat before she can act. She chokes suddenly, scrabbling to try and get away from him. He draws a knife from under his robes in his other hand, and with a particularly quick flick he’s managed to cut at her alula. She scrambles to the other end of her entrapment with a yelp, hand fumbling to the gash as she bleeds.

Crowley wants to jump in then, claw the human’s throat out for hurting his sister, but he has to be smart about this — he doesn't know what these people want, let alone why they would need an angel. The so-called leader comes forward with a bucket of paint, adding to the symbols on the ground while Uriel hisses.

“You’re not so dangerous and scary when you’re caged, are you?” he snarks to her, looking up from his work. “I’ve met lesser demons more scary than you.” Uriel growls, her largest set of wings flaring out further with her feathers ruffled.

Crowley paces like a caged animal, holding himself back. He _can't_ go in yet — Uriel could be collateral damage if he were to fight. His stomach drops when he sees a set of people approach her from her blind side, two on either side of her. One on each side have a grip on her wings from her coracoids and humeruses. On her left, another reaches to extend her wing out while she thrashes and struggles. A woman takes out a pair of garden shears, slicing away at Uriel’s primary feathers sloppily while she cries for it to stop.

“ _Please,_ ” she gasps out, “please, I’ll give you whatever you need, just _stop!”_ Her pleading gets her nowhere, instead a tighter grip on her wings as she begs for it to end.

Crowley ignores the feeling of hot tears slipping down his cheeks. He knows that it shouldn't hurt her, they were just feathers, but angels were picky about their wings — they didn't just let others _touch_ them, let alone cut their feathers like they were paper. Once the first wing is done the cultist moves to the second wing as Uriel continues to fight to get away. It's no use with the leverage put on her wings, and all she can do is cry and flail with panic while Crowley watches in abject horror. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get her pleading out of his head, seared in with hellfire and the urge to never let this happen again.

It’s a particularly hard lurch that Uriel gives when her wing is dislocated from its socket, just as the woman finishes clipping the tawny colored feathers. Uriel _wails_ and Crowley’s blood runs cold as Uriel’s finally released, hurling herself to the ground just to get away from the people. Her wing is held at an awkward angle, drug along the ground as she moves away. Crowley is frozen in place, shaking with rage as his sister shrinks away from everyone.

“Now that the little bird can't get away,” the leader says coldly with only a malice a mortal man could have, “we can get to work.”

He takes out a knife and before he can do anything, Crowley feels the rage swell white hot in his chest. He taps into his once-angelic power and time slows and freezes around him. Uriel breathes heavy in the center of the trap while her wings shake with stress and effort, looking bedraggled with ruined and lost feathers and streaked with blood. They quiver, curled inward to try and protect the angel they’re attached to — though the one dislocated stays pitifully still. She looks small, like a fledgling again, scared and hurt and confused. Crowley jumps into action, finding a bucket of bleach at the corner of the room. He fetches it, dumping it over one side of the circle. He breathes a sigh of relief when it washes away the cheap paint and Uriel comes back to herself, even slightly.

“Uriel? Can you hear me?” he says, coming into the remains of the circle slowly. The last thing he needs is for her to startle too quickly and smite him. “It’s Rap— It’s Crowley, Uriel, it’s alright.” He reaches out to touch her wing, running his fingers over the damaged primaries. She flinches, whimpering behind her wings.

“Raphael?” she says quietly, lifting up her secondary wings.

Crowley doesn’t hold any malice in the misnaming, instead letting her have space while she returns to reality. She manages to coax herself into unfurling her wings from around her body, shifting to her knees from laying down. Crowley quiets her and reaches his hand out to help her up. She takes it eagerly despite how her fingers shake and he pulls her up, catching her as she stumbles into him. He winces at the way her wing still hangs limply at her side, scraped and bloodied from the concrete.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Crowley soothes, urging her forward. She glances around the room, disoriented and confused.

“Why—”

“I— okay, I froze time,” Crowley explains as he tugs Uriel out the door, “but I can't hold it. ‘M not an Archangel anymore.” He huffs as they get out of the building, cold air hitting them like a wall. Crowley shivers, cursing the seasonal temperature drop. “Which is why we _have to move!”_ The last bit comes out as a hiss as the door slams resolutely, followed by various sounds of confusion as Crowley unfurls his wings. The door rushes open and a few of the people come out, hollering at Crowley to stop. He snarls back at them, fangs bared in a display of aggression.

One of the cultists draws a gun, and Crowley sends it flying from him hand with a quick downward wrist flick. Crowley’s in no mood to deal with corrupt humans, not at all, and he instead decides to snap the same one’s neck with a similarly-quick motion. It’s enough to make the rest of the humans gathered flinch away in fear. It’s enough for Crowley to get the both of them airborne, arms wrapped around her small body.

“Everything _hurts_ ,” Uriel whines out, a hand on her brother’s shoulder, “make it _stop_ —”

“I know, Uriel,” Crowley mumbles to her, keeping her secure against his side, “We’re gonna get you patched up, kid. Just a little further.” Despite being an Archangel, Uriel was the youngest out of any of his siblings; Created once Gabriel was already a teen-equivalent, coming into being as a toddler with the same golden freckles her corporation has and three sets of down-covered wings. Crowley feels old, now, looking at how young she looks at his side like this.

“I’m sorry,” Uriel says after a few minutes, leaning her head against Crowley’s neck. “For— for up in Heaven, I—”

“‘S not the time for that now,” he snaps. Uriel flinches and looks away, immediately making Crowley feel guilty for being short with her.

He’d never been able to stay mad at her even _before_ his Fall, and now was no different. She hadn’t been involved in his execution anyway, really, that was more of Gabriel and Michael’s thing. Uriel was after all, still the youngest, and that meant she was the one being bossed around to do the menial jobs and being delegated to head smaller groups and intimidate problem Principalities. They continue the flight in silence until they arrive over the familiar sight of an antique-looking building, warm light in the windows casting shadows on the street. It’s deceptively picturesque.

They land outside the bookshop, Uriel unconscious in Crowley’s arms — no wonder it had gotten so quiet during the flight. He manages to shoulder the door open, doing his best to close it behind him before he settles for a nasty glare and it shuts on it’s own. He heads for the back room, trying not to bump her on any shelf or stack of books.

“Crowley? You’re home late— oh my.” Aziraphale comes out from the back room as Crowley heads for it and quickly shelves the book in his hand to hurry to Crowley’s aid. “What on Earth—”

“Cultists,” Crowley says, shifting Uriel in his arms. “They used some kind of Enochian trap — she seems weak, but she’s also still drunk, I think. Didn’t get the chance to sober her up, I just wanted to get her out of there.”

Aziraphale tuts and helps Crowley carry her to the back room, laying her out on the sofa as carefully as they can manage. Aziraphale waves his hand, delegating a miracle to sober her up. She’s still scraped and battered and a little out of it from the shock, but at least she’ll be more or less in her right mind when she comes to. Crowley carefully reaches a hand out to touch her wing and she flinches away with a muffled cry of pain.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale mutters to himself, trying to get a good look at the injured wing. “A bad sprain, perhaps?” Crowley shakes his head and carefully maneuvers Uriel onto her stomach as Aziraphale helps him to drape her wings over the couch.

“No,” he replies, “It's a dislocation.” Aziraphale cringes and watches Crowley as he surveys the damage, wondering how much of it could be solved with miracles and what needed a more human touch. He looks to the largest wings first, covering her smaller secondary set.

Her feathers are horribly out of place, missing and sliced in some areas that weren’t clipped with shears. The worst to look at is where her joints meet her corporation, feathers ripped out from where the humans held her wings. Her right is the worst: its angled all wrong and he can see how uneven it’s held to its match, her carcinoid dropped down and over from the place it should be. When Crowley carefully lifts it for a better look at the wings underneath, Uriel lets out a sharp cry of pain despite her state of mostly-unconsciousness. Crowley winces, feeling guilty, and hushes her while he rubs the space between her wings in gentle circles.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, it’s alright,” he tells her, “It’ll just be for a moment.”

He goes back to the wing, Aziraphale coming to hold it up while Crowley takes a closer look. The secondary wing underneath is in better shape, though there are various patches of feathers missing and a bleeding gash that weeps blood over the corner of a visible bone. Aziraphale takes a sharp breath, face paling at the sight. Crowley mutters a curse under his breath before he closes his eyes and feels a familiar thrum through the essence of his being. He hasn't used a miracle to heal anything _living_ in a long time.

As he concentrates his eyes slip shut while he thinks of the skin knitting itself back together. It stretches out over what feels like hours (but is really only a minute or two) and when he opens his eyes with a sharp gasp, it looks better. The bone isn't protruding from her tawny feathers anymore, although it does still look a little off.

“I didn't know you could still do that,” Aziraphale says quietly. Crowley shrugs and wipes the sweat from his brow, carefully taking the place of Aziraphale's hands to lower Uriel’s wing.

“Neither did I,” he says, steadying himself for a moment before getting back to his train of thought. “Do you have bandages here?”

“I _can_ have some,” the angel replies, waving his hand towards the coffee table.

There's a quiet popping noise and a subtle change in the atmospheric pressure, but then there’s a generous variety of bandages and a variety of other medical supplies laid out for Crowley’s choosing. “Is that enough?"

“Perfect,” Crowley replies, snatching up a roll of gauze.

Neither had been concerned with _frivolous miracles_ since the incident up in Heaven, as Gabriel nor Michael would say a word to Aziraphale. And even before his not-death, Crowley didn’t care about what his higher-ups thought — Lucifer wasn’t even in Hell anymore, and no one would come after Crowley from Downstairs. Uriel chooses to rouse and this moment, blinking hazily a few times before everything comes back to her. Her wings that are able to flare out and she whimpers as the pain from injuries catches up with her.

“I— what—” She looks around the room, eyes wild while she takes in her surroundings.

“Easy,” Crowley soothes, taking Aziraphale’s arm and taking a few steps back. “Just look at me, Uriel. You’re alright.” She settles when she looks at him, wings settling.

“Raphael,” she says quietly, and then looks past him. “And Aziraphale.” Crowley stiffens at the use of his old name, but lets it go once again — she’s scared, after all, and woken up at a strange place.

“Yep, that's us,” Crowley manages to tease, giving her a lopsided smile. He holds the roll of gauze up for her to see. “I’m gonna get you all fixed up. You’re in no shape to be doing it yourself, you know.” She nods, shifting to flex it before she knits her eyebrows together.

“Hurts,” she mumbles, as if she was a fledgling who had fallen from a tree and _not_ as if she were an Archangel that had been attacked by a group of cultists. “What happened to—”

“They were taken care of,” Crowley interrupts, taking a few careful steps towards his sister. Aziraphale hangs back, opting after a moment to hurry out of the room to put the kettle on. Uriel visibly relaxes when he leaves, letting her wings drape and Crowley closes the distance between them.

“Does anywhere else hurt? What about your celestial form? Did they do anything to injure you there?” Crowley rattles off questions while he takes stock over her primary wings.

He does the calculating in his head: that dislocation would have to be set, and that would be painful. He’d be able to splint it, afterwards, but the wing would take some time to heal naturally. And her clipped feathers would have to have time to molt and regrow.

“I can't access the celestial,” Uriel says after a moment. She looks wide-eyed to Crowley, bottom lip quivering while she tenses up. “I can't even pull my wings back to the metaphysical. Something is _wrong_.”

Crowley panics for a split second before he grabs a blanket from one of the armchairs to drape over her, wrapping her front up. She relaxes a little, a near-silent rumble emanating from her. Archangels weren't known to purr or trill often — it was much more common in lower circles of angels, when they were overly emotional or extremely comfortable. Aziraphale hardly ever engaged in it, but when he did, Crowley basked in it. Crowley hadn't heard Uriel purr since she was a fledgling, small enough that he could carry her in one arm on his hip.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says, tucking the blanket around her. “Probably just something with your corporation being roughed up and the angel trap. It’ll be alright, Uri.” The old nickname rolls off his tongue effortlessly, as if he’d never Fallen, and he’d been around for the last few thousand years to co-parent his younger siblings along with his elder two. “How bad does this hurt, just when I touch it?”

“A little,” she says, wing trying to draw away from Crowley’s hand. “It’s not the absolute worst — I can't really move it, though.”

Crowley nods and carefully wraps his hand around the base of her wing.

“It's out of place, here at the joint. I need to put it back in so it can heal, but it's going to hurt — only for a moment, though,” he tells her, carefully running his fingers through the soft feathers near the base of the wing. Uriel nods, taking a shaky breath. “On three, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, voice quiet.

Crowley doesn't even get to the count of two before he jerks the bone back into place with a loud _pop_. Uriel yells out in pain and as soon as he’s sure the bone will hold, he’s holding his little sister in his arms as if she was a porcelain doll. Uriel clutches the fabric of his shirt, shivering while he holds her.

“It's alright, it's done. I’m sorry Uriel, I’m sorry,” he soothes, wrapping her up tighter in the blanket.

He performs a minor miracle to take some of the pain off of her, transferring it unto himself instead. When he was still an angel, the Healer, he had transferred others’ pains onto himself when he couldn't spare energy for major miracles.

The first Heavenly War had seen much of him in the tents on the front lines, tending to the wounded angels on both sides. He still thinks it’s the reason he Fell (and Mother never said it _wasn’t_ ).

“Raph — Crowley.” He’s happy that she corrects herself this time but he’s more focused on the way she shakes from the pain. “It hurts, it _still hurts_ —”

“I know, I know,” he repeats, wincing as he tries to take more of the pain on. She doesn’t stop shaking. “What else hurts, Uriel? You have to tell me, so I can make it better.” Crowley knows she’s not a fledgling anymore — there’s no use of talking to her like she’s a child, but there’s something comforting to Crowley in it.

“My—my _chest_ ,” she manages, fists clenched. “It’s like—like my essence hurts.” Angels (or demons, for that matter) don't need to breathe. It does, however, tend to happen when one comes to Earth. Uriel takes a gasping breath, eyes wide, and in a fraction of a second she’s jolted herself halfway across the room. “ I— I don't — I can't _breathe_ , it _hurts,_ Crowley _please,_ I—”

Crowley stands, hands out in a display of submission. He takes a few hesitant steps towards his sister, looking so young and frightened. Her wings are flared out, the feathers fluffed up to make her look imposing. Really, she just looks like a frightened child. It breaks Crowley’s heart a bit.

“Uriel, listen to me,” he soothes, voice soft. “You’re having a panic attack. Humans have them. I can _help_ , just let me get closer, alright?”

She nods and her wings settle slightly behind her, still mantled out enough to be considered defensive.

Crowley moves towards her, hesitating before he lets his own onto the material plane. He spreads them wide, keeping them low enough to be considered nonthreatening. “Just keep listening to me. Is it okay if I come a little closer?" Uriel nods, letting her good wings lower further.

“I know you’re scared. I know you’re hurting. Just take some deep breaths for me. In and out, nice and slow.” She shuts her eyes and does as she’s told, and Crowley’s able to approach her without frightening her. She jumps when he rests a hand on her shoulder, but she lets him carefully pull her to his chest and hold her, a hand rested on the nape of her neck. “It’s alright, you’re safe. I’ve got you, little bird.”

She cries.

Crowley lets her, mantling his own wings around her protectively while he backtracks to the couch. Once she’s gotten all of the tears out, she lets him bandage her up and secure the dislocated wing against her back, making sure it’s secure before moving on to clean the rest of her wings up and getting her into clean clothes with a quick miracle. By the end, she’s fallen asleep and he carries her to the guest bedroom, getting her settled. Aziraphale’s waiting for him when he leaves the room.

“Is she alright?” he asks, taking Crowley’s hand. “I didn’t want to intrude, since… well…”

Crowley nods, sagging against Aziraphale and finally letting loose the tension he’d been holding the entire evening.

“She’s not going to be able to fly for a while, with her feathers cut like that. Can’t miracle a molt.”

Aziraphale nods, leading Crowley to their own bed. Crowley lets Aziraphale dress him in pajamas the non-miracle way, humming as he goes before they both settle into bed for the night.

Uriel has never slept before — not really, anyway, so the feeling of waking up is odd and, quite frankly, unpleasant. She doesn't like the groggy feeling that she’s met with nor is she a fan of the vulnerability, the feeling of weakness that comes with waking. She does, however, appreciate the sight of her brother, with his wings sheltering her and her head cushioned on his lap. One of his thumbs trails back and forth through the soft downy of one of her secondary wings, smoothing the feathers out. Without hesitation, she lets out a low rumbling in her chest.

“Haven't heard _that_ in a long time,” Crowley muses, pausing his strokes. “Did you sleep well?”

“Don't like the feeling of waking up,” she replies with a wrinkled nose, wincing when she tries to shift. He helps her sit up, carefully adjusting her as not to jostle the wing bandaged securely to her back and torso.

“Neither do I. That's why I took a nap for a century.” Crowley examines the primary wing that’s out, carefully poking at a few of the bare spots before he speaks again. “I talked to Aziraphale about how you felt disconnected from your power.”

“You did?” He hums in response, looking at her sliced primary feathers and furrowing his brow.

“He thinks that the cultists’ spellwork did something to block your connection to the Host. It limits your power severely, which is why your wings that were present at the time are still corporeal. Thankfully, he thinks that your power will return with time.”

Uriel sighs, already realizing what her brother’s words meant. “But that will take a while,” she finishes. He nods.

“Thankfully, we have this spare room. You can stay here until you’re recovered.” Crowley shrugs. “Besides, you can’t fly until you molt next.” Her shoulders slump defeatedly, scowl on her face. “So you’re stuck with us a while.”

“I could contact Gabriel to come and fetch me,” she offers quietly, “if— well, if you’d rather not have me around. I understand.” She looks away, throwing the blankets off from her body and she works to stand up. Crowley rests a hand on her shoulder, keeping her seated on the bed.

“Uriel,” he says firmly, “you’re not in any shape to go anywhere. I’ll have Aziraphale let Michael know you’re safe.” She crosses her arms, eyes narrowed slightly. Her nose wrinkles the way it always has when she’s gearing up for an argument and Crowley readies himself for it.

“You don’t have to pretend like you’re not angry with me,” she mutters, tone curt. “You’re allowed to be, after all.” Crowley sighs, exasperated, rubbing the heels of his palms over his eyes.

“I’m not angry with you,” he says with a patience only a middle child could have, “I’m not even upset with you.”

“You should be.”

“And why is that?” Crowley fires back, one eyebrow raised. Uriel feels something between anger and sorrow swell in her chest.

“Because I let them— I didn’t do anything to— you _died!”_ she manages to spit out, shakily rising on her feet. “I didn’t _do_ anything! I let Gabriel—”

“You didn’t _let_ him do anything,” Crowley interrupts as he stands across from her. His face turns a little softer as he walks around the bed to stand opposite her, putting a hand on her arm. “You didn’t know either.” She wants to pull away and argue, but he continues. “No one _knew_ , but— I’m bad at this, Uri, but you get what I mean, yeah?”

“I… think so,” she responds after a moment. She tentatively takes a miniscule step forward, arms coming to wrap around Crowley’s middle and press her head against his chest. Uriel’s far shorter than he is, the perfect height for him to rest his chin against the crown of her head. After the initial shock, that’s exactly what he does: he wraps his arms around her like he’s holding glass and rests his chin on her. She sniffles into his shirt.

“Hey,” he soothes, a hand at the nape of her neck, “it’s alright.”

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out, burying her forehead against his sternum, “I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“You let me have space. That’s what you were _supposed_ to do,” he says again, keeping her close. He’s missed this: the part of being an older sibling, of belonging somewhere in a real family. Even if they’re dysfunctional, and all four of them can be wankers. He misses moments like this.

“I missed you,” Uriel whispers, “after you le— Fell. I thought you just didn’t want to be around anymore.” Crowley lets out a little coo, trying to comfort her best he can. There’s a knock at the door, but neither sibling lets go of the other. Aziraphale opens the door, and that’s when Uriel lets go in favor to take a few steps back, keeping within reach of Crowley.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Aziraphale notes, opening the door further. He warily eyes Uriel before he continues, “I wasn’t sure what your opinion on food was, but I made you oatmeal, if you want it. You must me exhausted.” Uriel manages a meek smile when he holds out the bowl on a tray, taking it from him and setting it on the bed before she clears her throat.

“I’m sorry,” she says slowly, looking a bit bashful, “about the, er, cornering before Armageddon. And about what happened with Crowley in Heaven. I hope that with time, you can forgive me.” Aziraphale looks at her, then shoots a glance to Crowley (who shrugs, because what can he say?), and then back to Uriel. She takes his hand in both of hers. “I just wanted to thank you for letting me stay for a bit even though I was unjustifiably cruel to you before. It wasn't fair.” Aziraphale is at a loss — which rarely happens, for someone as well-spoken and put together as he is — but he clears his throat and smiles.

“I accept your apology, dear,” he replies, putting his free hand on one of hers. “I'm just glad that you’re alright. You can stay as long as you need to, of course. The room is yours until you’d like to leave.” It's Uriel’s turn to smile this time, moving from holding his hand to giving him a (albeit awkward) hug. Aziraphale accepts, of course — it would be rude not to, but he also quite enjoys a good hug — with little fuss, releasing her with the premise to go open the shop.

“You… actually sell books?” Uriel asks, wrinkling her nose. Crowley snorts, rolling his eyes.

“No,” the demon replies before Aziraphale can, “he lets people come in and then makes me scare them out.” Aziraphale sticks a bottom lip out, crossing his arms.

“I don't _make_ you do anything,” he says with a mock annoyance, “you enjoy sunning in the window and most people don't expect a two meter long serpent in a bookshop.” Uriel manages a little giggle, following Aziraphale out of the room and asking questions about human authors that he happily obliges to answer.

Crowley sighs, pacing the now-empty room before he grumbles and leaves for the kitchen. He rummages through a drawer — the designated one for anything they didn’t have a place for — and pulls out a stick of chalk, going to the open counter space before carefully drawing his own sigils out. It takes some work, but after a few minutes the connection springs to life. He dawdles, stating who he needs to talk to (did he do all of those extra sigils for _nothing?_ He bloody used Gabriel’s name for a reason, put him through directly!) and agreeing to go on hold momentarily. The line flashes back, no image shown but definitely active.

“Raphael?” Gabriel asks, confused momentarily before switching to panic, “Is Uriel with you? She left last night and we haven’t—”

“She’s with me,” Crowley snaps back, irritated with the use of his old-old name. “And I told you. My name’s Crowley.” Gabriel huffs, obviously annoyed with that answer, before continuing.

“What happened? We can’t track her, it’s as if she vanished from Mother’s Host. Did— did she _Fall?”_

“Fuck no,” Crowley replies, rolling his eyes at his brother’s dramatics. “She had a run in with some no-good Americans, you know the type. She’s staying with us a while ‘til she’s healed up again.” Gabriel lets out a sigh of relief and there’s a momentary pause in the connection before either speak again.

“Thank you,” Gabriel says. “For telling me. Michael’s been out of their mind with worry.” Crowley snorts.

“Sure. When they haven’t been ignoring everything that’s not their job,” he snarks, “I know how they are.”

“They feel _guilty,_ Ra— Crowley _”_ Gabriel snaps back, “like the rest of us do.” Crowley scoffs and walks away, turning in a circle with exasperation before he goes back. He has to be level-headed, which he has not been in a rather long time.

“Listen,” Crowley starts, trying not to get frustrated, “I get it. I do. And you’ve both done a great job of letting me have my space, but moping and ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away.” He can practically hear the dejected expression that Gabriel’s most likely sporting. “But— hey, if you’re alright with it, when Uriel’s ready to go back Upstairs, I’ll tag along. We’ll talk then, alright?”

“... Okay,” Gabriel replies after a moment of hesitation. “I’ll see you then. Please take care of yourself, Crowley. And Uriel as well.” The connection fizzles out, leaving Crowley in the quiet of the kitchen. He takes a rag from the sink to wipe up the chalk — of course he _could_ just miracle it away, but he appreciates the distraction the physicality of the task provides. It helps get his mind off of his remaining family in Heaven. He’s tossing the rag back into the sink when he hears Uriel laughing from down in the bookshop, and he can’t help but smile. Maybe things were, in fact, beginning to work themselves out.

**Author's Note:**

> I would say I'm sorry, but I know that everyone loves angst (and the ensuing fluff) as much as I do. While this is currently listed as a single-chapter work, I do have a tentative "part two" that's pretty well purely fluff if you guys would be interested! Drop me a comment if you liked it and tell me if you want the fluff chapter! Comments and kudos are always appreciated! If you're a fan you can check out my other works (but no pressure of course!) and I'm on twitter @queenMissouri where I yell about life, fandom, and cats. Thanks for making it this far!


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